


You Are Rogue Tomato!

by Stealth_Noodle



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Bad Decisions, Choose Your Own Adventure, Gen, Humor, POV Second Person, POV Tomato, Partially Illustrated, Ridiculous, Team Ifrit, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 9,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stealth_Noodle/pseuds/Stealth_Noodle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take on the role of Rogue Tomato in a thrilling Choose Your Own Adventure story that uses AO3's chaptering system in ways it was never meant to be used! Travel the world! Make friends! Die absurdly!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [argle_fraster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/gifts).



> Written for the November round of FFEX's Chocobo Races, for ser_pounce_alot's prompt "Look, I just need more adventures of Rogue Tomato. Rogue Tomato attends an Archadian banquet! Rogue Tomato joins a hunt in the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea! Rogue Tomato attends a convention with his brethren in the Sochen Cave Palace, and spikes the punch with so much Rabanastre Spirits that everything ends up on AracadesTube the next day and receives over 10000 comments!"
> 
> Because it's not CYOA without a few pictures, I scattered three across the chapters. Catch 'em all like hastily scribbled Pokemon!
> 
> Make sure you're viewing chapter by chapter instead of the entire work at once, or this will make even less sense than intended.

You are far from the cool fog and dense foliage of home. Here the dry air whips sand into your mouth, and the clear sky is always either filled with fire or twinkling with cold stars. Too late, you regret The Incident that led to your exile, almost as much as you regret thinking that north looked like a friendlier direction than east. 

So far, no one has wanted to be your friend. The cactites pretended to be your friend, but that ended in tears and a backside full of needles. The guards at the massive gates won't even let you try to make friends inside the city.

The falling sun casts long shadows over the desert. Soon you can stop sweltering in the shade of a cliff and start shivering while you stare wistfully at warm huddles of wolves. (The wolves do not want to be your friends, either.) You hate it here. You are so very, very alone.

The cloaked bangaa passing nearby also looks alone.

 

To attempt to make friends with the bangaa, turn to chapter 2  
To use the bangaa as an outlet for your discontent, turn to chapter 3  
To ignore the bangaa and continue wallowing, turn to chapter 5


	2. Chapter 2

You dart out in front of the bangaa, mouth agape in greeting. No one can resist a smile like yours!

The bangaa recoils, reaches for a weapon, seems to think better of that, and finally kneels to get a closer look at your charming expression. From this angle, you're pretty sure this is a pistil-bangaa, not a stamen-bangaa. "Hello," she says slowly, extending a scaly hand. 

You know this one; you press the end of your arm into her palm and allow it to be held and pumped up and down a few times. Bangaa are weird. 

Her lips peel back from two rows of tiny teeth, which are also weird. "You're a friendly little _raksas_ , aren't you?" she says. "Do you like adventures?"

If you didn't like adventures, The Incident would never have taken place, and your love for them blooms on despite it. You nod vigorously enough to set your leaves to dancing.

After glancing about as if for eavesdroppers (sharing secrets! You are already best friends!), the bangaa continues, "I seek glory in combat in order to rub it in the disapproving faces of my parents. When I attend their next insufferable soiree, I'll be wearing a wyvern head at my waist."

Adventures with violence, followed by family drama! You squeak giddily.

All teeth, she holds out her hand again. "Will you accompany me, _bhadra_ , to hunt in the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea?"

The sandsea sounds like the worst of all possible seas. You _knew_ there had to be a catch.

 

To suck it up and follow your new best friend to any sea she likes, turn to chapter 4  
To pretend you have something better to do with your time, turn to chapter 5


	3. Chapter 3

With a mighty bellow from the the darkest reaches of your anguished soul, you charge the bangaa at ramming speed. There is a satisfying collision and an even more satisfying yelp. You're pretty sure you jammed your stem, but you regret nothing.

The bangaa hits the sand hard. You have a moment to gloat before you notice something metallic flashing into your opponent's hand.

Luckily, you've never been shy about escalating a situation. After sucking in a quick breath, you spew it back out in a fiery burst. The charred bangaa runs screaming for the river. 

Time for the Rogue Tomato Victory Dance! You shriek your song of conquest to the heavens, ignoring the snide remarks of a passing cockatrice.

As you wind down, you notice that the bangaa dropped something while fleeing. It looks like a fancy invitation. You were never the most literate mandragora in the Feywood, but you're pretty sure this paper is fancily inviting you to a party tonight in Bhujerba.

 

To crash that party and be the fruity life of it, turn to chapter 6  
To spend another sad, lonely night in the desert, turn to chapter 5


	4. Chapter 4

You ride upon your bangaa's shoulder like a magnificent botanical parrot. Together you cross desert, dirt, and more desert, keeping each other's spirits up by sharing stories of grand adventures and familial disputes. She keeps using words that you've never heard before, but you usually get the gist. And you're almost certain that she doesn't understand a word of Mandragoran, but she nods along as you snuggle up against her ears and break down your metaphorical pulp. You catch not a hint of judgment from her as you vent your complicated feelings over The Incident.

As things made of meat go, she's your new favorite.

Eventually the sand turns strange, and your bangaa prematurely ends an anecdote about stowing away on an airship when she spots something in the near-distance. A wyvern, perhaps? Several wyverns? No, you doubt that wyverns look so much like cloaked humanoids riding on giant fish.

"Urutan-Yensa." Your bangaa curves her arm into a slope, and you slide down it to hit the ground battle-ready. Your locular cavities pulse in anticipation. "Ready to fight, _bhadra_?" she asks, drawing a gleaming, long-barreled gun. 

You squeak affirmatively and fill your mouth with fire. You are awesome adventure buddies. You've got this.

Then again, the Urutan-Yensa look like they've got this, too. They've also got giant fish.

 

To battle valiantly at your hume friend's side, turn to chapter 7  
To make friends with the Urutan-Yensa instead, turn to chapter 8


	5. Chapter 5

It takes a better opportunity than _that_ to coax you out of your (dis)comfort zone. You curl up in your unhappy place and shiver resentfully until dawn, caught up once again in the momentum of misery. What's the point of it all, really? Why even bother randomly accosting strangers to keep your spirits up when you know your spirits are headed right back down? 

The desert spreads out before you like a vision of your future: gritty, inhospitable, and populated mostly by tittering cockatrices. You want none of it.

Shoulders slumped and feet dragging, you wend your way to the southern bank of the river. If there's no point in going on, you might as well go out with some dignity. Setting your mouth sternly, you spread your tiny arms and fall backward into the water.

This would be a lot more dignified if the cold weren't making you squeak and flail and the ichthons weren't regarding you with idle contempt. You _knew_ you should have plummeted from a cliff instead. Or at least tested your own buoyancy first. Everything is terrible. 

Something sharp hooks into your stem and yanks you out of the water. Given the way your luck has gone lately, you are not even cautiously optimistic.

You dangle before a hume, who regards you with his wet, creepy eyes as he reels you up. You scowl at him and drip. "So how does this work?" he asks at length. "I get three wishes now, right?"

 

To play along, turn to chapter 9  
To attempt a daring escape from the fish hook, turn to chapter 10


	6. Chapter 6

Bhujerba turns out to be a hard place for a mandragora to go. After several abortive attempts to sneak past the guards into the city, you hide behind the nearest rock and wait unhappily in the heat for a traveler with large pieces of luggage to pass by. One frantic dive into a hume's laundry later, you've hitched a ride to the aerodome, and then it takes only a little careful listening and three precisely timed baggage-hops to see yourself safely aboard a skyferry to fancy fun.

You've always wanted to ride a skyferry. You're not sure this experience counts, since you're attempting to enjoy it from inside the unwashed knapsack of a seeq, so you're not going to cross it off your harvest list just yet.

Once the skyferry has landed, you hitch a ride with your knapsack's owner and peer in awe at the majesty of Bhujerba. It's nothing like the Feywood and even less like the accursed desert; geometric buildings rise in colorful tiers over patterned streets and jut clean through the clouds. You wonder why the clouds are so low, until your unwitting carrier passes near the end of a bridge and you discover that the sky is mostly beneath you right now. With difficulty, you suppress the urge to squeal, followed by the urge to drop something and see what happens. Colorfully attired members of various species wander past without appearing the least bit impressed by their distance from the ground.

It occurs to you that you are woefully under-dressed for the party, but you can worry about that after you've figured out when and where the party actually is. Deciphering the invitation is difficult enough when you're not surrounded by canvas and perpetually jostled.

When your seeq stops to browse in the darkened corner of a shop, you take the opportunity to escape the knapsack. As you slink through the shadows, you admire the fancy goods on sale: colorful candles, bright baubles, tasseled tablecloths, everything you'd need for a classy gathering. A pair of moogles are heading from the counter to the backdoor with armfuls of decorations, grumbling to each other about being stuck with last-minute emergency shopping duty for the banquet.

You're just going to assume that there's only one fancy party going on tonight in Bhujerba. That's reasonable, right?

 

To introduce yourself to them and flash your invitation, turn to chapter 11  
To stalk them like a sneaky basilisk, turn to chapter 12


	7. Chapter 7

With the power of friendship, anything is possible, or at least flammable. You roar with a heat the lonesome desert sun could never hope to match, and the fish rear back in a furious fluttering of fins. A single crack from the gun sends an Urutan-Yensa toppling off its mount.

Two more shots, and your enemies go down behind a screen of smoke. As it clears, you can just glimpse a flaming fish diving under the sand to extinguish itself. You and your bangaa improvise a celebratory dance of teamwork.

"We make a fine pair, _bhadra_ ," she says. You glow a ripe red. "Now let us find a wyvern to decapitate."

That dark shape gliding low the sand over there is probably a good place to start. You point it out eagerly, and your bangaa nods and licks her lips. From somewhere in the vast recesses of her cloak, she pulls out a spare gun and offers to you. You are touched but must regretfully decline; you're not licensed for that.

As you draw near, you notice that this wyvern looks a bit different from the ones you've seen before—it's bigger, for a start, and are those feathered wings? No matter, you suppose. It's definitely some kind of flying lizard, and your bangaa has the hips to pull off that head as a belt buckle. You slide down her arm and prepare for glorious combat.

Your preparations are insufficient; the wyvern knocks you flat with a gust of gritty wind. As you spit sand and struggle upright, you hear the frustrated shouts of your bangaa. The wyvern persists in dancing out of the way of her shots. She needs a distraction. 

The wyvern swoops low, its scaly lips peeled back from the beginnings of a tornado. With a ferocious solanaceous snarl, you leap upon the beast's neck. For friendship! 

Despite your root-fast grip, the wyvern shakes you off almost immediately. But you can hear your bangaa chanting, and the wyvern crashes to the ground not long after you do, snoring like a thunderstorm. As you pick yourself up, she rushes over to the fallen beast, pulls out an ax, and gets to chopping.

So _that's_ what the inside of a wyvern looks like. Animals are weird.

With a roar of triumph, your bangaa raises its massive severed head over hers. You join her for a messy victory dance.

As you wind down, grinning like fools, she says, " _Haa,_ we are a fine pair, indeed. Will you join me tonight in bringing excitement to my _amba_ and _tatah's_ dreadful banquet in Bhujerba? You have not truly lived, _bhadra,_ until you have tasted _madhu_."

Sometimes you think she's just making up words as she goes.

 

To make dinner plans with your bangaa buddy, turn to chapter 13  
To insist on further violence against the denizens of the sandsea, turn to chapter 14


	8. Chapter 8

In a world like this, it's every tomato for itself. You dart behind your bangaa, and before she has a chance to suspect your imminent betrayal, you headbutt her into the path of the oncoming Urutan-Yensa. Her gun goes flying out of her grip into the shifting sands. As the fish close in on her, you squeal and point excitedly to make sure that your new friends notice your contribution.

Well, that friendship was sweet yet brief. Sometimes survival means making hard choices.

And the only thing harder than those choices is probably the ax that just cleaved right through one of the giant fish. The sun glints from the edge of the blade as it bisects the nearest Urutan-Yensa.

You are beginning to have regrets.

In short order your bangaa emerges from the carnage, injured but intact, dripping with various creatures' internal fluids, ax in hand. It looks like she found her gun, too. That must be very exciting for her.

You feign shocked delight. It is entirely plausible that you tripped, isn't it? Or were just kidding? What's a little attempted murder between adventure buddies, anyway? 

If what she's yelling at you is any indication, apparently it is quite a lot. You back away, arms spread appealingly, holding a big burning breath for when she charges. In close-range combat, victory goes to the one setting the fires.

Unfortunately, fire doesn't do much to bullets.

 

**Alas! Your ruthless pursuit of self-preservation has backfired.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	9. Chapter 9

The hook complicates nodding, so you chitter affirmatively and spread your arms wide. Three wishes, sure! Big ones!

After stroking the furry point of his chin for several seconds, the hume says, "First, I wish for the most perfect teeth in all Dalmasca."

Teeth make mouths crowded and terrifying; you'll never understand what other species see in them. But you pretend to regard this as a very fine wish indeed, gesturing for the hume to bring you closer to his mouth.

He reels you in, teeth bared. You grip the sides of his head for balance, inhale deeply, and breathe an inferno straight down his throat.

It's super-effective! The hume hurls the pole, with you still attached, onto the dock. That dreadful sensation is definitely your stem splitting around the hook, but you'll have to mourn the loss of your good looks later; now you've got to flee before the hume—

Actually, the hume isn't moving. Or at all likely to move again. You've learned something today: despite their affinity for water, fisherman humes are not especially fire-resistant.

This changes things.

Now that you've slain the fisherman in combat, you must take his place. This is absolute natural law. You might have scandalized the entire Feywood with The Incident, but not even you would go rogue enough to ignore this rule.

The clothes won't fit, but the scorched hat very nearly does. You cover your broken stem with it, roll its previous owner into the river, and then settle in with the fishing pole, your tiny feet dangling from the edge of the dock. 

It no longer matters what you think about this desert, because this desert is henceforth your home. You will catch fish and exchange them for goods and services; you will nod at other villagers and express your feelings about the weather. You will live, laugh, and perhaps one day learn to love.

 

**Congratulations! You have become a contributing member of a community!**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	10. Chapter 10

With a mighty wriggle, you start swinging from the fishing line like a pulpy pendulum. The hume's bemusement lets yous arc almost far enough to grab the fishing pole, but he recovers quickly. 

"Stop that!" he shouts, shaking the pole and ruining your rhythm. "You're supposed to grant wishes, magic fish!"

Being caught by someone with such a poor grasp on biology is just insulting, and the jarring of the hook in your stem adds injury to insult. Stewing with indignation, you gulp a breath and spit it back out ablaze. The hume's hat ignites. 

As hoped, he drops the pole. As not hoped, he drops it into the river. You wail through the brief moment it takes you to whip down after it.

The pole is much less buoyant than you are, and it drags you down through water every bit as cold as it was a few minutes ago. Your stubby arms struggle to reach the hook. Before you've managed to get a grip on it, an enormous ichthon rushes by, catching the reel on its tusk.

On the bright side, you are no longer sinking. On the side where nothing is coming up Rogue Tomato today, you are being dragged stem-first along the surface of the river at a speed liable to leave your head splattered on the bank. You howl an impotent flame.

The river and the itchthon turn sharply. You and the pole do not. You hit the ground body-first, sore but unpasted, and spend a moment feeling sorry for yourself before getting back to work on removing the hook. It's wedged in there pretty well at this point.

"Kweh," says something behind you. 

You tumble around and come face-to-beak with a giant yellow bird. It lets out another "kweh" before nuzzling you with its face. 

 

To adopt the kweh-bird as your new best friend, turn to chapter 15  
To refuse to associate with anything that can see more colors than you can, turn to chapter 16


	11. Chapter 11

If you're all going to the same party, you might as well go together! You pop out of the shadows with an eager squeak and rush toward the moogles, waving your ill-gotten invitation. What should you wear? Should you bring a side dish? Is this going to be the best party ever, or what?

The moogles are taken aback by your enthusiasm. Unfortunately, they continue to be taken further and further aback as you approach, despite your obviously amicable intentions. They must not understand Mandragoran. Or gestures. Maybe you should grin a little wider.

Or maybe not, since that's what sets off the screaming. " _Raksas_!" one of the moogles shrieks. "Help! We're under attack, kupo!"

Frustrated, you spit a little bit of fire at a nearby tapestry and point at the rapidly spreading damage. See? That's an attack. You're just trying to forge friendships based on mutual interests.

The moogles can't seem to tell the difference, though. Nor can the armored guard who chops you in half.

 

**Alas! You have become a victim of socially sanctioned bigotry.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	12. Chapter 12

The shadows are your snow, and the moogles are your unwitting prey; you are exactly what a basilisk would be if basilisks were short, round, and urban. On silent, stubby legs you slink under display cases and behind tapestries, then out the door just before it swings shut after the moogles.

Outside, they load their new possessions into the back of a cart. As they load themselves into the front, you take the chance to dive in among the decorations. The acceleration of the cart elicits a squeak of alarm from you, but the moogles don't appear to notice. Success! You stay low and hold on tight.

When the cart halts, you can hear the moogles giggling and whispering, just loudly enough for you to make out snatches of conversation: "on the clock, kupo," "plenty of time, kupo," "sexy jumpsuit's been driving me crazy all day, kupo," and a few free-floating "kupo"s tossed in for good measure. After another round of giggling, the moogles hop out of the cart and rush furtively through a nearby door. 

Curious, you dig yourself free and pad after them. They've left the door ajar, giving you a peek at a tiny room lined with shelves and barrels. Peering around the door's edge is even more educational than you expected. Is _that_ how mammals pollinate each other? Mammals are weird.

There is a discarded sexy jumpsuit just inside the doorway. This gives you an idea.

 

If your idea involves crafting a cunning moogle disguise to sneak into the party, turn to chapter 19  
If your idea is more along the lines of being the meat in a moogle sandwich, turn to chapter 20


	13. Chapter 13

As you and your bangaa approach the gated city that has never allowed you inside, she twists her head to peer at you over her snout. " _Raksas_ are less welcome in Rabanastre than I am in Archades, so unless you wish to hide beneath my _sravana_ or inside the wyvern's mouth, we had best disguise you."

You're not sure you want to know which part of her is the _sravana_ , so you just nod. Disguises are fun! Unless, of course, they result in Incidents, but you've already learned that lesson.

"Wait here, _bhadra_ ," she says, and leaves you with the sack full of wyvern head for company. It isn't very good company, but it provides a bit of shade. You make a game out of igniting the flies that buzz around it with precise little puffs of firebreath.

You have ten points and two penalties when your bangaa returns. Teeth gleaming in a long grin, she drops a colorful pile of fabric on you and says, "Try this on."

Clothes are weird; you require some assistance to figure out which holes are for your feet. Eventually you settle into trousers that billow ludicrously around your legs, sleeves that engulf your arms, and a hat with a pair of what look like mu fronds glued to it. It isn't until your bangaa ties a large puff ball to your stem that you realize this is a moogle disguise.

Your attempted "kupo" comes out mostly as a squeak. As she affixes vaguely aliform bits of leather to your back, your bangaa suggests that you play the role of a quiet moogle.

So cleverly costumed, you find the hardest part of waltzing through Rabanastre to be not pointing and squeaking at everything. Cities are more exciting than anything in the Feywood, and infinitely better than anything in the desert. You want to live right there! Or maybe there! No, definitely over—ooh, the aerodome!

Riding a skyferry is so exciting you could overripen right in your seat and let your seeds spill all over the floor. Your bangaa seems unimpressed by the experience but amused by your reactions to it.

"Bhujerba is built on a _purvama_ ," she says, as you continue to paste your face to the porthole. "You will see much more of the sky this day."

You can only hope this means additional airship rides are in your future. At the end of this one, you still feel high up, which is promising. You and your bangaa disembark and bustle toward the aerodome's exit.

You have nearly bustled into Bhujerba proper when an official-looking hume stops your bangaa. "Random customs check, _bhadra_ ," he says. "Please present your luggage for inspection."

Your bangaa shows her teeth. "'Random,' my _puccha_! Every time I pass through this aerodome, I am inspected!"

"Then perhaps you should cease to be such a reliable source of contraband." The hume points at the still-soaked sack containing the wyvern head. "If whatever is inside that bag is even close to permissible in our streets, I will eat my hat for you."

You understand almost none of the words your bangaa hisses in reply, but she would clearly rather compel the hume to eat his hat and possibly also his shoes without letting him peek inside the bag. Shouting follows.

The vibrant cityscape teases you through the open exit. You can think of things you'd rather do today than witness a protracted struggle against Bhujerban bureaucracy.

 

To run off exploring on your own, turn to chapter 21  
To rescue your pal with a distraction, turn to chapter 22


	14. Chapter 14

You're having so much fun killing things together, why stop now? Putting on your best pouty face, you point at the fiery blur of a bomb drifting along the edge of a dune. Maybe you two could kill that thing together? Or what about that cluster of alraunes over there? They look like jerks.

Your bangaa claps your shoulder and says, "I admire your ambition, but ruining this banquet has been my sweetest dream for some time now. Wreak domestic havoc with me tonight, and we will hunt again on the morrow. Perhaps in Golmore Jungle?"

The jungle has not wronged you as personally and repeatedly as the desert, so you can't imagine that killing its residents will be as fulfulling. The bloodlust awakened in you will not be sated by wrecking social situations, either; you must give yourself over to ceaseless orgiastic violence. To express this, you cross your arms and chitter edgily.

"As you will, _bhadra_. May your marks fall swiftly." Your arm is pumped again before your bangaa hefts her severed wyvern head and heads back toward the city. You'd wave, but it wouldn't fit your new badass image.

Speaking of which, you really ought to save up for a license for a decent gun. Your new image cries out for a gun. For now, you'll have to settle for scowling, swaggering, and scorching.

That cluster of alraunes never sees you coming.

 

**Congratulations! You have been rebooted as Darker and Edgier Tomato.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	15. Chapter 15

New friend acquired! You beam at the kweh-bird, squeaking the notes of affinity, before finally wresting the hook out of your stem. It doesn't seem to care that you're probably disfigured for life; indeed, its feathers puff with unconditional love. The kweh-bird lowers its head to the ground, allowing you to climb aboard its neck and make your way into one of its saddlebags. The prospect of a friendly adventure makes you so giddy that you can almost feel yourself turning green again.

Instead of galloping off to adventure, the kweh-bird stands still. You chitter encouraging giddy-up noises at it to no effect. 

Just when you're beginning to worry that your new friend is a bit dim, you spot a moogle approaching and dive down into the saddlebags. Looks like you'll have to share your new ridable pal, though with luck, you might be acquiring a bonus friend.

The moogle dumps an assortment of goods on top of you and promptly loses your goodwill. As the kweh-bird starts to move, you brace yourself for an exciting, if uncomfortable, ride. Several minutes in, the moogle begins to sing. The moogle does not sing well.

After what feels like days of mild but continuous suffering, the kweh-bird halts. Your elation is short-lived, as it isn't long before the curious pressure in your locular cavities suggests that you're on a skyferry. Admittedly, you've always wanted to ride on a skyferry, but not while buried under bottles and utensils.

Eventually the kweh-bird moves again. When it stops, you shake feeling back into your stiff limbs and squirm your way to freedom.

You would appear to be in an alley inside the sort of city that would never knowingly have let you in. As you stare, slack-mouthed, at the fancy buildings and trees and unexpectedly close clouds, the kweh-bird chirps curiously at you, as if it has never seen you before. Its beady black eye reflects you. It's a nice bird, to be sure, but you don't see much conversational future in this relationship. 

In search of an intellectual equal, you slide down the kweh-bird's leg and make it two steps before bumping into the moogle. In your defense, the clouds are very distracting. 

"Where did you come from, kupo?" the moogle asks. "Are you guest, staff, or appetizer?" At your offended squawk, he makes a mark on a clipboard and gestures toward a nearby open door. "Well, either way, into the kitchen with you, kupo!"

 

To explore the kitchen in search of better company, turn to chapter 17  
To steal the moogle's clothing and take his place as an important person with a clipboard, turn to chapter 18


	16. Chapter 16

Birds have never sat right with you. Something about those beady, hyper-observant eyes, maybe, or those bizarre excuses for mouths. They don't have teeth, but that's about all they get right. That this bird is enormous does not improve matters.

You back away from it slowly, which would work better if you didn't have a hook throwing off your balance. Three steps into your escape, you topple backward.

The kweh-bird advances. Its head rises, twitching at odd angles as it keeps a black eye fixed on you. Chittering sternly, you make shooing motions. The bird fails to be shooed. Looks like you'll just have to shoo it with fire.

You've scarcely gathered a mouthful of flames before the bird abruptly gains speed, draws back a massive leg, and kicks you square in the face.

The world goes flying away as you arc shrieking through the air. For an instant your greatest terror is ending up back in the river, but you soar over the opposite bank with the fishing pole trailing painfully after you. This will not end well. Maybe it's better that you're facing backward.

At least you don't have to see the surface you splatter over.

 

**Alas! You have become abstract art.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	17. Chapter 17

No sooner have you stepped inside than you're snatched up by your poor abused stem. The seeq responsible for this indignity eyes you critically. With a shrug and a grunt she says, " _Haa_ , it's all the same when it's sauce."

To your dismay, fire does not dissuade her from this position; she just pats out the flames on her apron and reaches for a knife. Apparently seeq who work around open flames all day develop a tolerance. She is terrible company. You will not be friends at all.

You kick and wail valiantly, but this is one sauce you won't be staying out of.

 

**Alas! You have become delicious.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	18. Chapter 18

The moogle must be used to being obeyed; he ignores you completely after ordering you inside. This makes it easy to ascend the kweh-bird, retrieve a heavy glass bottle, and return to thump him on the back of the head with it.

Once he's down, you drag him behind the makeshift privacy screen of the kweh-bird's legs and divest him of his colorful outfit. His ears, wings, and fuzzy antenna are more firmly attached, so you craft yourself some hasty substitutes from the contents of the saddlebags. You don't have a mirror handy, but you're sure that your disguise is flawless.

Clipboard in hand, you wave farewell to the kweh-bird, which appears blithely bemused by everything, and strut into the kitchen like you own the place. (Maybe you do! You cannot even begin to decipher the papers attached to the clipboard.)

Your very important arrival draws a flicker of attention from a seeq managing several stoves' worth of bubbling pots. She snorts at you. "You're late, you _manda murkha_ of a moogle. Where are my spices?"

You make a show of drawing shapes on the clipboard before gesturing back toward the kweh-bird outside. In the saddlebags, probably. How should you know? You're a very busy moogle and can't be bothered with these details. You have checks to mark.

With a profoundly put-upon sigh, the seeq wipes her hands on her frilly apron and bustles outside. This is tremendous fun! Who else can you be important at?

The closed door on the other side of the kitchen looks like a promising start. It opens on a dim hall, with light and the hum of many conversations carrying from the far end. A party, perhaps?

Your history with parties is less than stellar, but this could be your chance to redeem yourself for The Incident. The mists of the Feywood obscure your past indiscretions, and with your clever disguise, even the most mandragora-fearing guest won't be able to judge you by your exocarp. You'll be the life of the party! You'll win hearts and minds! Top-notch friends will throw themselves at your absurdly small feet!

The time has come to fulfill the dearest wish of your pulp.

 

Turn to chapter 23


	19. Chapter 19

The jumpsuit fits, more or less, and a little digging through the party supplies nets you creative substitutes for wings, ears, and a puffball for your stem. Flawless disguise in place, you wander around the building in search of an entrance that isn't blocked by pollinating moogles.

You've turned two corners when a harried-looking hume startles you. "Where have you been, _manda_?" she demands. "Where are the supplies you were sent for?"

You gesture vaguely back the way you came. They're supposed to still be in the cart, right? What do you look like, someone who can carry heavy things over any sort of distance?

" _Murkha,_ " she mutters before dashing off in the direction you indicated.

Just beyond the space where she was standing, a partially open door gives you a glimpse of a busy kitchen, where a moogle is attempting to repair a malfunctioning stove for an increasingly impatient seeq in a frilly apron. You strut purposefully past them and are not challenged.

On the opposite side of the kitchen, you open a door that leads to a long, darkened hallway with tantalizing hints of light and music at the far end. Your leaves flutter with anticipation. This party is very nearly _crashed_.

Your history with parties is less than stellar, but this could be your chance to redeem yourself for The Incident. The mists of the Feywood obscure your past indiscretions, and with your clever disguise, even the most mandragora-fearing guest won't be able to judge you by your exocarp. You'll be the life of the party! You'll win hearts and minds! Top-notch friends will throw themselves at your absurdly small feet!

The time has come to fulfill the dearest wish of your pulp.

 

Turn to chapter 23


	20. Chapter 20

After some trial and error, you don the jumpsuit and deduce that what you're feeling right now must be sexiness. Sexiness is itchy, puffy-legged, and fraught with zippers that do not accommodate the fingerless. This must be why the point of the sexy jumpsuit is its removal.

Once you've managed to zip up, you slip through the doorway and squeak inquisitively. _Sexily_ inquisitively.

The moogles freeze, then scream. You're not sure why. Perhaps removing the jumpsuit will help.

To your consternation, the zipper resists and the screaming intensifies. "Why is it wearing my clothes?" one of the moogles howls, while the other grabs a dustpan and a mop. You are now being menaced by cleaning supplies. This is not how you expected things to go.

You attempt to chitter enticingly, but it's impossible to be heard over the constant panicked cries of "kupo!" When you strain to increase your volume, you accidentally spray droplets of fire. In a room with fewer flammable contents, this would be less of a problem.

You are now being menaced by a burning mop. 

If you could just get this jumpsuit off, your sexily friendly intentions would become clear, and you could all go somewhere less on fire together. Stupid zipper. You slap at it and hop up and down to no effect.

During your struggles, the jumpsuit ignites. As if you needed additional motivation to get it off. You rush toward the moogles in hopes of assistance and are instead smacked in the face by the fiery mop. It turns out that your stem is also flammable.

As you go down in flames, the moogles leap over you and flee the conflagration. You are too busy roasting to give chase. They probably would have made lousy friends, anyway.

 

**Alas! You have become a victim of your own hotness.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	21. Chapter 21

Your bangaa can catch up with you later. As she continues debating the finer points of Bhujerban customs regulations, you dart between her legs and make a break for the sunshine. The hume inspector shouts after you, but you are unstoppable; you slip neatly under a barrier and out into freedom. 

Additional shouting suggests that your deft maneuver may have attracted the attention of other officials. A backward glance identifies them as a pair of seeq guards. You accelerate your escape.

Bhujerba looks like a lovely city, from what you can see of it while fleeing: green plants, squarish tiers of buildings, curiously low clouds. You weave between citizens of various species on a long bridge that appears to lead to a nice selection of seeq-ditching alleys. Near the end, another pair of guards rush in from the other side of the bridge. This strikes you as unfair.

After a moment's dithering, you break to the right and vault over the side of the bridge. You've tumbled out of trees before with little ill effect; surely this bridge can't be any farther above the ground than the tallest of those.

Mid-leap, you realize that the view from the bridge is very like the view from the skyferry's porthole. As you plummet, howling and flailing, toward the distant green and blue of the earth, you come to a late understanding of what a _purvama_ might be.

 

**Alas! Your arm-flapping is no match for gravity.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	22. Chapter 22

Nothing distracts like fire. As the pitch of the argument rises, you toddle casually over to the nearest trash can, bend over the top, and exhale little flickering flames over other people's unwanted papers. You have plenty of time to slip back to your bangaa before the blaze reaches alarming heights.

The argument ends abruptly amid cries for evacuation. With a triumphant grin, your bangaa lifts you to her shoulder, hefts the bag, and surges out with the crowd. The customs officer is lost in the panic, howling his defeat. This is the best panic you've orchestrated in quite a while.

As you flow with the sapient traffic across a long bridge, you stare in fascination at sleekly geometric buildings, lush greenery, and vast expanses of sky. From your current angle, it looks like the sky is as much under the bridge as above it. How are all these people so excited about fire yet so nonchalant about living on a flying island? You do not understand Bhujerbans.

As you try to work out why chunks of the sky look crystalline, you bangaa bears you through winding streets to one of the more impressive buildings. The door she makes her way to is much less impressive and tucked well away from the street. She sets you and the bag down and probes the door's lock with a pair of slender metal sticks. " _Svagatam_ ," she tells you when something clicks loudly inside the lock, "to the _grha_ of my youth. It is insufferable. Let us make it less so."

It's not often your particular set of talents makes anything less insufferable, so you're looking forward to the novelty. With a cheerful squeak, you follow your bangaa inside a narrow, dimly lit hall, where she stops to affix her wyvern head to her belt. It's still gooey. This is going to be _fantastic_.

She leads you toward warm light and the hum of civilized conversation. When you reach a corner, she whispers, "When you hear my _tatah_ say the word 'disappointed,' that is the time to set the tablecloths aflame."

Sounds like a plan! 

 

Turn to chapter 24


	23. Chapter 23

Time to let the party know that its life has arrived! Grinning wide, you strut into a ballroom packed with food, furniture, and a mix of bangaa and humes in colorful clothing. Tables are piled high with platters of food, but you see not a single good patch of sunlight for photosynthesis-preferring guests. Truly, casual anti-vegetable sentiment pervades the animal kingdom.

You're also sensing some ugly prejudice against people who only come up to most other people's knees. Attention is not being paid to you. Your winning smile isn't even getting a chance to compete. Annoyed, you weave through a forest of shins in search of something to climb.

A number of table legs look promising, but you don't want to end up sharing tablecloth space with snacks made of your distant relatives. Just when you're ready to climb up one of the guests and hope that's not too much of a faux pas, you spy the low-hanging tassels of a tapestry. You hop, grab, and pull your way up the fabric like a fish swimmingly dauntlessly up a waterfall.

Halfway up the tapestry, you are still not the center of attention, but at least you've got a better view. At the far end of the ballroom, elevated seats hold a pair of bangaa sporting such elaborately patterned clothing that you get a little dizzy looking directly at them. They are probably the ones in charge around here and accordingly would be excellent friends to make. 

The best way to introduce yourself to impressive people is with an impressive entrance, right? As you consider your options, you notice a rope knotted around a ring built into the wall near you, a rope which you trace up to a chandelier. An _impressive_ chandelier.

 

To ride that chandelier to new social heights, turn to chapter 27  
To reject that idea and think of one with fewer crashes, turn to chapter 28


	24. Chapter 24

You round the corner together and come upon a huge ballroom, packed with food, furniture, and a mix of bangaa and humes in colorful clothing. Tables are piled high with platters of food, but you see not a single good patch of sunlight for photosynthesis-preferring guests. Truly, casual anti-vegetable sentiment pervades the animal kingdom.

At the far end of the ballroom, elevated seats hold a pair of bangaa sporting such elaborately patterned clothing that you get a little dizzy looking directly at them. Even though your bangaa's dark cloak sticks out against the other guests' sartorial choices, she doesn't appear to draw much attention until she's pushed most of the way through the crowd. The elevated bangaa cut off a conversation at her approach.

There is a tense pause before your bangaa throws back her hood, followed by a collective gasp. You can almost taste the drama.

One of the elevated bangaa has a shiny, architecturally intriguing hat. She is the first to speak, in a tone that could make a cerberus tuck its tail between its legs: "We did not expect you, _putri_ , as you were not invited."

"Forgive my tardiness," your bangaa replies. "I took a brief detour through the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea." She tosses open her cloak for a dramatic reveal that might have been a bit more dramatic if the lump under her fabric weren't so conspicuous, but you give her points for style. From the guests' reactions, you assume they didn't expect the lump to be a chunk of wyvern.

The bangaa with the shiny hat lets out a long, simmering " _haa_ ," which eventually gives way to, "What is the meaning of this?"

Your bangaa sneers. "I was told not to return without _zironyasa_. So I do." With no clue but the groaning of the guests, you assume that you have been subjected to a terrible pun.

The bangaa with the shiny hat must not like puns; she growls and noisily snaps her teeth. "You bring shame upon us, _putri_! Why can you not be more like your _bhrata_? He now manages two of our shops."

"He is to be married this spring," adds the elevated bangaa without a hat. "He will give us many grandchildren."

Your bangaa snorts. "I will not count my nieces and nephews yet. Does his blushing _vahdu_ know why the miners call him 'moogle- _yabhati_ '?"

The collective gasp from the assembled suggests that you have just learned a very dirty word in Bhujerban. Such a shame you don't have the mouth-parts to repeat it.

In the back of the ballroom, an especially shocked bangaa with rows of delicate rings in her ears turns and flees through the nearest door. A bangaa with the same markings as yours chases loudly after her.

"We agreed," says the hatless bangaa, very slowly, "never to speak of that incident." This is not how Incidents work, in your experience.

"How precious," says your bangaa, just as slowly, "that you believe it was a single incident."

"You are impossible."

" _You_ are impossible."

The conversation degenerates rapidly from there, both in the quality of arguments and in the percentage of words you can understand. No one has actually said "disappointed" yet, at least not in so many syllables.

 

To go ahead and set some fires, turn to chapter 25  
To help the conversation along, turn to chapter 26


	25. Chapter 25

Disappointed, schmisappointed. Those tablecloths strike you as overdue for a good burning.

You pick your way between scandalized guests until you reach a table piled high with fruits and flaky breadstuffs. Here you make a show of covering a polite cough with the corner of the tablecloth, then let it fall, gently flaming, back into place. With practiced nonchalance, you stroll to the table of smoked meats.

You've discreetly ignited four more tablecloths before anyone notices. A hume who apparently enjoys snacks with her family drama wrinkles her nose as she reaches for a sausage, then traces the smell to smoking fabric. Screams ripple through the crowd. You scurry up the leg of the leg of a table that isn't burning yet, where you can enjoy the fruits of your labor without being trampled.

The noise drowns out your bangaa in the middle of a rant about, as far as you can decipher, two missed birthdays and unwanted dance lessons. She turns to you with a grin before hefting the wyvern head and tossing it back over her shoulder. It strikes a panicking hume in the head and triggers a chain of pratfalls, to your utter delight.

With strategic elbow strikes, she moves against the crowd to pick you up from your table. As you hop aboard her shoulder, she says, "Sometimes it is good to improvise, _bhadra_."

You squeak your agreement. Additional elbow action gets you both back into the crowd's flow and out the nearest exit, where it's no trouble at all to slip down an alley before any of the guests have managed to summon a guard and explain the emergency. Without the wyvern head on your bangaa's belt or flames actively pouring from your mouth, you two can enjoy at least a few minutes of plausible deniability. 

" _Haa,_ that was satisfying," she says, turning toward the aerodome. "Shall we hunt again? I hear that Golmore Jungle is nice this season."

You think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

 

**Congratulations! You have a partner in violent mischief.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	26. Chapter 26

It's time to get the family drama back on track. Weaving between the legs of the guests, you make your way up to where your bangaa is volleying invective with her parents. There's only one way to untangle this mess: charades.

After hopping up and down and squeaking as loudly as you can, you manage to capture your targets' attention. Bemused quiet descends. 

This is it; this is your moment. You hold up an arm. One word. Your lack of fingers prevents a syllable count, but you will overcome. Cupping the end of your arm around the base of your makeshift costume ear, you pucker the frame of your mouth. First syllable, sounds like "kiss." Your strategy is impeccable!

Unfortunately, the guests are not shouting out their guesses. After a long, thick silence, the bangaa in the shiny hat says, "Who invited the _kurupa_ moogle?"

No one claims you. Scowling, you skip ahead to the third syllable by pointing accusingly at everyone starting at you. Why do so many many creature have eyes? Eyes are creepy.

"I do not think that is a moogle," says one of the humes.

"Of course it's a moogle," your bangaa snaps. "Look at its ears!"

This proves a regrettable piece of your disguise to call attention to; she's still hissing the last "s" when one of the feathers drifts down to the floor. You must have gesticulated a little too wildly for it. As casually as you can, you scoop up the feather and hold it back in place against your head. All better, right?

The crowd responds with overlapping screams of, " _Raksas_!" Some people, honestly. This is the third-worst charades game of your life.

In the confusion, the guests run willy-nilly toward exits and into each other. You desperately need not to be in the way of their feet, but your current location lacks anything you can climb to safety. The leg you attempt to ascend kicks you deeper into the danger zone.

You slip, slide, and sidle frantically between feet. This works until a bangaa's tail sweeps against your legs and drops you hard on your backside. The last thing you see is a large hume tripping over his own fancy robes and hurtling toward you like a felled tree.

 

**Alas! You are not half the charades player you assumed yourself to be.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	27. Chapter 27

You hook your arms around the rope and shimmy upward, in defiance of gravity and the purported greatness of opposable thumbs. Aside from a near-slip halfway up, your approach is flawless. You do a self-congratulatory little flip to get yourself onto the chandelier.

Now, if the fancy bangaa are over there, and the chandelier is over here, and the rope will take that long to burn, you should swing with about this much force...

The crystals dangling from the chandelier clatter loudly together. You've scarcely started rocking when the faces of most of the guests tilt up toward you. This is poor timing, as it coincides with several candles popping loose and spinning downs into the crowd. Your plan is scarcely in motion, and already the screaming has started.

Well, there's no sense in backing down now. You exhale a bit of fire on the rope and count down as you swing. Five... four... three...

The rope snaps. You probably should have seen this coming; it's not as if you have any experience calculating this things, and your onion cousins are the ones with heads for numbers. With a howl of remorse, you ride the chandelier down to a crash-landing on top of the bangaa you meant to impress. Impact comes as a terrible, shattering judder.

When your most recent poor decisions stop flashing before you, you seem to have survived. As a bonus, the bangaa appear unconscious, or perhaps dead, so they are unlikely to finger you as the one who crashed a chandelier into them. This is almost as good as the original plan.

Now you just have to escape a panicked mob while sore and a bit shaky. The elevated seats of the bangaa are near a window, so your climb up the back of one of their chairs and make a daring leap for the sill. It's narrow, but so are your tiny feet; you stick the landing and wind yourself up for a glass-cracking headbutt.

To your own surprise, this mostly works. The glass shatters outward, you're not leaking more than a bit of juice, and no one snatches you by the ankles as you dive to freedom. The window turns out to be farther above the ground than you anticipated, but this is mitigated by the presence of a tree. As you scamper down the trunk and off into a shadowy alley, you are in awe of your own success. 

Apparently you are _really good_ at wrecking parties. This is your gift, your calling. You will embrace your penchant for Incidents and make an art of it. This bizarre flying city and its strange-talking people will throw no soiree without dreading the moment you crash it.

 

**Congratulations! You have become the scourge of Bhujerban high society.**

**Your adventure ends here.**


	28. Chapter 28

Crashing a chandelier at someone's feet is more of a second date move, you're pretty sure. Maybe you should just wrench the tapestry from the wall and glide down with it fluttering behind you. Or maybe you should rain fire on the guests who appear to be contributing the least fun to this party. Or maybe...

Maybe it's getting difficult to keep your fingerless grip on this tapestry. You could just slide back down and mingle like an ordinary tiny person. That would probably be polite. Ordinary people don't cause Incidents.

So settled, you rappel back down, dust yourself off, and return to the colorful forest of legs. When you come across a pair belonging to a bangaa who isn't engaged in conversation with anyone, you tug at his trousers until he notices you. Now is your chance! With your best irresistible smile, you gesture up toward the nearest table and are rewarded, after a briefly bemused look, with a glass of wine larger than your head. 

The glass becomes a useful conversational prop as the bangaa beings telling about you about his middle-management job in the mining industry. You swirl the liquid to amuse yourself whenever you aren't squeaking agreeably. Eventually a hume joins in and drives the bangaa away with talk of her work engineering less wobbly mine carts; this too is boring, but there's something almost nice about the sheer civil dullness of this.

"I do not recognize your accent, _bhadra_ ," says the hume after a meandering anecdote about temperature-sensitive metals. "Are you perchance Rozarrian?"

You chirp and swirl your wine.

She nods. "A fine city. I have family there." And then it is back to pleasant droning until another hume replaces her.

It turns out that polite conversation is all about making agreeable noises and gesturing vaguely. And you're already an expert conversationalist, what with all the people who seem genuinely pleased to have talked at you for a bit. You had no idea high society was so easy!

By the end of the evening, you still haven't interacted with the bangaa in charge, but that's probably just as well; you can crash their next soiree as a beloved tradition.

 

**Congratulations! You have navigated a social situation without killing anyone, including yourself!**

**Your adventure ends here.**


End file.
